


I Want To Hold Your Hand

by AnonymousDandelion, DandelionDrabbles (AnonymousDandelion)



Series: Dialogue Prompt Fills [11]
Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Awkward Aziraphale (Good Omens), Awkward Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Overthinks (Good Omens), Communication, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Overthinks (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fluff, Holding Hands, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Quote: Ngk (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), Tired Crowley (Good Omens), crowley is trying too, soulmates dialogue prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27607430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousDandelion/pseuds/AnonymousDandelion, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousDandelion/pseuds/DandelionDrabbles
Summary: If Crowley were any less dazed, weary, and out of it, he might have noticed sooner that he and Aziraphale have been holding hands since the bus stop.As it is, the bus is halfway to London by the time he becomes aware of this fact.(Soulmates dialogue prompt fill #3.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Dialogue Prompt Fills [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996120
Comments: 45
Kudos: 176
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	I Want To Hold Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Me: All the ficlets in this prompt fill series will be either either 400 or 500 words long!  
> Prompt list: “Please, please hold my hand, and make me whole.”  
> Me: Hahahaha, never mind *writes 1200 words*
> 
> (Title inspired by the Beatles song of the same name. This fic has not yet been in the Bentley for a fortnight.)

They board the Tadfield–Oxford bus and settle into a double seat, side by side, as the coach heads towards London.

If Crowley were any less dazed, he might have noticed sooner that he and Aziraphale are sharing the seat, as opposed to their usual practice of sitting a row or two apart, maintaining at least a veneer of plausible deniability. If he were any less weary, he might have noticed sooner that their shoulders and sides and knees are brushing, and that neither of them is making any move to pull away.

If he were any less out of it, Crowley might have noticed sooner that he and Aziraphale are holding hands.

As it is, however, Crowley _is_ overwhelmingly dazed and weary and out of it — and so, the bus is halfway to London by the time he becomes aware of all these facts, in one abrupt rush of realization. He stiffens, every muscle going taut at once, and channels his feelings about this discovery into a verbal expression somewhere along the lines of “Rmngkh.”

He feels Aziraphale go rigid in response, shoulder tensing and hand tightening around Crowley’s. The angel’s head swivels, scanning the interior of the bus and looking out the window, then — apparently seeing no sign of danger — he turns his alarmed gaze on Crowley. “What’s wrong?”

Crowley reiterates his previous statement, with a few extra consonants thrown in for good measure, and lifts his left hand to point at his right, its fingers still interwoven with Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale follows the gesture, brow furrowed as he looks at their linked hands — then, questioningly, back at Crowley. “What?”

“Mghrjnrlk,” Crowley says, then manages a strangled, “Hands.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen… and then he works their fingers apart and lets go.

Crowley stares at their now-separate hands, and feels bereft.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks, sounding cautious.

Under the circumstances, Crowley has no idea how to even begin to answer that question. So, he doesn’t begin to answer it.

“Are you— is there— did you—” Aziraphale is starting to wring his own hands now. “Did I do something wrong?”

The anxiety in _that_ question is enough to make Crowley resort to words in order to say vehemently, “ _No._ ”

Aziraphale looks uncertain. “Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Crowley — and, because Aziraphale still seems like he doesn’t quite believe it, goes on, “When did we…?” He gesticulates between their hands.

Aziraphale’s expression shifts to one of plain puzzlement. “When did we…?”

Dammit, this angel is actually making Crowley _say_ it. “Whendidwestartholdinghands,” he blurts.

He couldn’t have _imagined_ the hand-holding, could he?

No. He definitely didn’t imagine it. He can still feel the residual warmth from the pressure of Aziraphale’s palm. Crowley closes his right hand, trying to hold on to that warmth.

“When did we start holding hands?” Aziraphale sounds genuinely bewildered by the question. “At the bus stop? Well, and the airfield, but…”

Crowley remembers that moment at the airfield. Of course he remembers it. _Nice knowing you. Here’s to the next time._ Right before Shadwell intervened.

The _bus stop_ , though? Crowley and Aziraphale had been holding hands since the _bus stop_?

Whatever the expression currently crossing Crowley’s face, it makes Aziraphale’s switch back to concern. “Are you all right?” the angel asks again.

“I didn’t _notice_ ,” Crowley says pitifully.

“You didn’t… notice?” Aziraphale echoes. “But… you offered.”

“ _What_.”

“You reached for my hand! When we got on the bus! You…”

Bugger. “I think,” Crowley croaks, “I was distracted.”

Aziraphale looks suddenly stricken. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I didn’t… I would never have… I thought you _wanted_ …”

 _Bugger._ Well, obviously Crowley _wanted_ it, but he wouldn’t have _done_ it if he had been in his right mind. “Sorry,” he says miserably.

“What?” Aziraphale’s tone is back at confusion. “No, _I’m_ the one to be sorry.”

“You shouldn’t… don’t do things you don’t want just because I do.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale stares. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“You would never have held my hand,” Crowley repeats, dully. Not that he wants to hear Aziraphale say it again — but for some reason he needs to clarify anyway. “And I made you do it.”

He’s used to tempting Aziraphale into things Aziraphale _pretends_ not to want, of course. Unofficially, that’s part of the Arrangement. This, though, is different. _Too fast…_

“My dear boy.” Aziraphale looks at Crowley like he just said something monumentally stupid. “You didn’t make me do anything. How would you have done that? Please don’t be ridiculous. Of course I want to hold your hand. That’s why I did it. I…” He shakes his head. “But that’s not the point.”

“The point?” Crowley flails for words that make sense.

“The _point_ is, I thought you meant it, I thought you wanted it, but you didn’t, you were distracted, you didn’t… and I… I took advantage of you… I’m _sorry_ , Crowley…”

“ _Wait_.” The world seems to be pitching erratically, and Crowley is fairly sure it’s not just the bus going over a pothole. “You _want to_ hold my hand.”

“Of course I do. You…” Aziraphale takes a breath. “Stop changing the subject! I told you, that isn’t the point. It’s not about what _I_ want, it’s…”

Crowley feels abruptly, wildly, like bursting into lunatic laughter. “ _You_ want to hold _my_ hand.”

“Crowley…”

“You want to _hold_ my _hand_.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale glares at Crowley. “You needn’t make such a fuss about it. Yes, I wanted it, and it made me feel whole, and I’m sorry I did it, I told you, I really am very sorry and I won’t do it again, but I can’t help what I _want_ , I…”

“ _Sstop_ ,” Crowley interjects.

Aziraphale stops.

Feeling like an idiot, Crowley states the glaringly obvious. “I want to hold your hand too, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale gapes at him. “But…” He trails off, apparently at a loss for words.

Crowley, with millennia of experience under his belt in being at a loss for words, swallows. He’s paying attention, this time. He’s going to do it _properly_.

“Nljkrmg.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrow gives a nervous twitch. “Pardon?”

“Will you.”

“Crowley? Are you…”

“Willyouholdmyhand?”

Aziraphale goes still. He studies Crowley. “Are you… are you certain?”

“ _Yess_!” Crowley glowers. He _said_ it, and now Aziraphale is making him use even _more_ words? This is so not fair. But he’s in too deep already to give up at this point. “I’m _sscertain_ ,” he affirms.

“Well, then.” Aziraphale’s face lights up, metaphorically and bordering on literally. “Then, yes. Please. _Yes._ Please, _please_ hold my hand, and make me whole.”

Crowley puts his hand in the air between them. Carefully, Aziraphale takes it. Together, they lower their joined hands to the place where their hips touch.

They settle back in the seat, shoulders and sides and knees brushing, and neither makes any move to pull apart as the bus continues towards London.

Every piece of Crowley is powerfully, intensely, overwhelmingly, wonderfully aware of the sensation of Aziraphale’s fingers, twined with his own. He sees what Aziraphale means about feeling whole. Sitting here, hand in hand, it’s almost as if they are one being, the boundaries between their corporations all but nonexistent.

This, Crowley feels confident, he is going to remember.

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley are perpetually engaged in a competition for who can be the biggest overthinker. They mean well, though. <3
> 
> I hope this fic could brighten your day a bit; I know I enjoyed writing it! I love and appreciate every single kudos or comment you may see fit to leave. Be well.


End file.
